That is a silent old palace lamp, and the copper bones have long been ground into dull dark gold by time. The crimson silk has faded into the color of a concubine, but it still shines with a warm light, like the clouds at dusk. On the lamp wall, the hand drawn folded plum blossoms have faded in color, but the climbing branches still stretch out thin and hard, as if stubbornly continuing a cold dream in silence.

Occasionally, the wind passes through the corridor, and the lamp body sways lightly. The flower shadows on the walls come to life, and even the light seems to take a breath, flickering on and off. In the dim twilight, a few warm and old, whispering bubbles are exhaled.